Work Text:
Tadashi stares blankly at the long, slender wand in his hand. He blinks once. Twice. Three times.
Whoa.
Two red lines.
Okay, so this was only the fourth test. He could always try a fifth. If it was still positive on the fifth, then there was definitely something wrong—mostly because this didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t be pregnant. He just couldn’t.
Outside, the knocking starts. Repetitive. Sharp. It’s definitely Tsukki, and his patience is clearly wearing thin.
Yamaguchi lets out a shuddering breath. He keeps his eyes glued to those two red lines as he pulls the bathroom door open.
Tsukishima is standing there, arms crossed, looking like he’s already over it.
“So?” he starts, eyes narrowing. “Is it still positive?”
Wordlessly, Tadashi holds up the test.
Tsukishima freezes. He looks at the plastic stick, then looks at Tadashi’s face, searching for a breakdown. But Tadashi just feels... numb. Uncharacteristically blank.
“If it’s still positive on the fifth try, I’m actually going to the hospital,” Tadashi says. His voice is weirdly indifferent, like he’s talking about a flat tire and not a life-altering event.
“You’re just wasting money, Tadashi,” Tsukishima sighs, leaning against the doorframe. “We don’t have practice tomorrow. I can accompany you if you’re that desperate for a professional to tell you the same thing.”
“It’s just... this is bothering me. I mean—I can’t actually be pregnant, right? Physically?”
Silence.
Tsukishima lets out a long, heavy breath, the kind that says how are we still talking about this?
“Tadashi. You do remember you’re intersex, right?”
Tadashi doesn’t answer. He just stares at the floor tiles.
“While the chances are low, there’s always a possibility,” Tsukishima continues, his voice dropping the bite. “It was never zero, Tadashi.”
It feels like a bucket of ice water just dumped over his head. The numbness cracks, and the cold reality starts seeping into his bones.
“Fuck,” Tadashi whispers.
Tsukishima doesn’t even look away. “Yeah. Kageyama really fucked you up.”
Yamaguchi pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing so hard his knuckles turn white. He stays like that for five minutes, lungs burning, until Tsukishima finally snaps and forcibly pulls his hand away. It was a bad habit—holding his breath whenever the panic started to claw at his chest.
“Breathe, Tadashi. You’re turning blue,” Tsukishima mutters, his voice tight.
He doesn’t wait for a response. He just hooks a hand under Yamaguchi’s elbow and steers him toward the living room. Tadashi goes willingly, his legs feeling like they’re made of lead. His mind is a static-filled mess, looping the same thought over and over.
Fuck.
He hated this. He hated his body. Being intersex was supposed to be acceptable in this day and age, but to Tadashi, it was just a lifelong source of insecurity. He’d spent years trying to feel like a normal man, convinced that his internal biology was just a dormant fluke. He never imagined it actually working. He never imagined this.
“Drink.”
Tsukishima nudges a glass against his hand. Tadashi takes it, blinking back to reality. It isn’t cold the way he likes it—it’s lukewarm, almost medicinal—but he drinks it anyway, the water sliding down a throat that feels like it’s been scraped with sandpaper.
Tsukishima stands over him, hands buried deep in his pockets, his expression unreadable behind his glasses.
“You know,” Tsukishima says, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low octave. “I really want to commit a crime right now.”
Tadashi lets out a weak, watery huff. “You wouldn’t. You’d hate the prison uniform.”
“Try me. I’ve already calculated how many ways I can break his precious fingers,” Tsukishima retorts, though the edge of his mouth twitches just a fraction.
Silence falls over the apartment. It’s heavy, suffocating, and smells faintly of the takeout they’d had for dinner. Tadashi stares into the half-empty glass of water, watching the ripples.
“Look, Tadashi,” Tsukishima sighs, finally sitting down on the edge of the coffee table so he’s at eye level. “We’re going to the hospital first thing tomorrow. We need a blood test to make sure this isn’t some... freak hormonal spike or a bad batch of tests, alright?”
“And if it’s not?” Tadashi’s voice cracks. “If it’s real?”
Tsukishima looks away for a second, then back. “Then we’ll deal with it. We’ll figure out what you want to do with that... that thing in your womb later, okay? One step at a time.”
Yamaguchi feels his vision blur. The thing. It sounded so terrifyingly real when Tsukishima said it. God, Tsukki could be such a prick, but he was his prick. The only person who could look at this mess and start making a checklist.
Sensing the impending meltdown, Tsukishima reaches out. He looks like he’d rather be doing literally anything else, but he awkwardly places a hand on Tadashi’s messy green hair and gives a stiff, rhythmic pat.
They’d been best friends since they were kids. They’d shared everything—volleyball, school, this apartment. But physical affection was still a foreign language to Tsukishima.
“Don’t get tears on the rug,” Tsukishima mutters, though his hand doesn’t move from Tadashi’s head. “It’s expensive.”
“Shut up, Tsukki,” Tadashi whispers, leaning into the touch anyway.
“Shutting up.”
That night, the room was too quiet, the kind of silence that let every intrusive thought scream at full volume. Tadashi stared at the ceiling, tracing the faint shadows of the streetlight outside. He kept replaying a single prayer in his head, a desperate mantra: Please let the tests be a fluke. Please let tomorrow be a mistake.
If the hospital told him he was fine, he could go back to his life. He could go back to the job he loved, back to being the reliable friend, and most importantly, back to interacting normally with Tobio.
But the reality was a heavy weight in his gut. He had been so careful. He was always the responsible one. How could he have been this reckless?
It had been the national team after-party, which had basically devolved into a massive high school reunion. He hadn’t even wanted to go at first.
“Tsukki said he wasn’t going, so I was just going to stay in,” Tadashi whispered to the empty room, his voice sounding small.
But then Yachi had called, sounding nervous but excited. She wanted to see the other managers she’d grown close to over the years. Tadashi, being the person he was, felt an immediate sense of duty. He couldn’t let Hitoka navigate a room full of rowdy, drunken athletes alone.
He’d arrived with the intention of being the safe friend. He’d watched his own glass like a hawk. He’d been the one making sure everyone had water.
“I’ll take that, Hitoka-chan,” he’d said with a smile every time someone offered her a drink she didn’t want. “I’ve got a high tolerance, don’t worry.”
He couldn’t blame her. He wouldn’t. This was on him. He should have known that drinking for two people was a recipe for disaster. He should have known that eventually, the alcohol would dull the sharp edges of his common sense.
And he really should have known better than to look back when he felt those eyes on him.
Tobio.
Usually, Kageyama’s eyes were like lasers, narrowed and focused entirely on the court or the ball. But that night, they were different. They were hazy, dark, and swimming with a liquid heat that Tadashi had never seen before. When they landed on him, they didn’t look through him—they looked at him. With desire.
“Stupid,” Tadashi groaned, pulling the duvet over his face. “You are so, so stupid.”
Of all the people in the world, he’d ended up in a hotel room with Tobio Kageyama. A man who was a permanent fixture in their inner circle. A man he had to see at every reunion, every big match, every group dinner.
How was he supposed to look Kageyama in the eye and tell him that their drunken mistake had turned into a permanent reality?
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
The test at the clinic was definitive. No more flukes, no more plastic wands from the convenience store.
Six weeks. Yey.
The doctor’s voice had been a low, clinical drone, explaining the complexities of his biology. Words like hormonal maintenance, delicate tissue, and viability floated in the air like dust motes. They talked about the pros. They talked about the cons. They talked about his options.
Tadashi didn’t remember standing up. He didn’t remember walking through the sterile corridors or the sliding glass doors. He only came back to himself when he felt a sharp, stinging pinch on his cheek.
He didn’t even flinch. He just blinked, the blurred world of the hospital parking lot snapping back into focus. Tsukishima was standing right there, his face a mask of annoyed concern.
“I can’t tell him,” Tadashi whispered.
The words felt like lead in his mouth. He couldn’t. Tobio was at the absolute peak of his career—he was a star, a once-in-a-generation talent who breathed volleyball. And they were just... friends.
Besides, Tobio probably didn’t even understand the mechanics of what had happened. Knowing him, he probably thought it was physically impossible. Tadashi felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rise in his throat—he probably had guided Tobio that night, hadn’t he?
He couldn’t imagine a world where Tobio Kageyama settled down for a domestic life. Tobio belonged to the court, to his fans, to his sport. He was destined for greatness, not for something like this.
“That’s it. I’m blocking his number before I do something that lands me in jail,” Tsukishima’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts.
Tadashi looked up, startled. “Tsukki, you don’t have to do that. It’s my mess.”
“Of course I do,” Tsukishima snapped, already pulling his phone out with a terrifyingly efficient thumb. “I’ve been looking for a reason to cut that idiot off for years. This is a gift, Tadashi. Don’t take it away from me.”
Yamaguchi let out a weak, shaky laugh. The absurdity of it all—Tsukishima using a life-altering crisis as an excuse to be petty—was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.
“God, I’m so stupid,” Tadashi said, his voice crumbling at the edges. He leaned his forehead against Tsukishima’s shoulder, not caring who saw. “I don’t know what to do, Tsukki. I really don’t know what to do.”
So, Tadashi finds himself curled up on the sofa that night, an oversized blanket draped over his shoulders as he nurses a tall glass of milk. It’s a sudden, weird craving—one he’s been indulging in for the last hour between bouts of quiet, shaky crying.
In the kitchen, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a knife against a cutting board provides the only soundtrack. Tsukki is making dinner, his back turned, looking remarkably domestic for someone who had threatened a felony just two hours ago.
Yamaguchi rubs his temples, the skin there tender from stress. “Tsukki?”
“If you’re going to ask me if the milk is expired, I checked the date. Drink it and shut up,” Tsukishima calls out without looking back.
“No, it’s not that.” Tadashi sighs, pulling his knees to his chest. “I’m just... thinking. About the keep it or not part.”
Tsukishima’s knife pauses for a split second before resuming. “And?”
“And I don’t know,” Tadashi whispers.
On the TV, a loud, cheerful commercial jingle cuts through the mood. It’s an ad for some brand of laundry detergent, featuring a mother in a sun-drenched living room. She’s lifting a gurgling baby into the air, the infant laughing with wide, bright eyes.
Tadashi freezes, his glass of milk halfway to his lips. He stares at the screen, his heart doing a strange, painful somersault.
Would the baby inherit my freckles? He’d always hated them—those tiny, messy dots he thought made him look plain and speckled. But then he imagines them on a smaller face. He imagines those freckles paired with a set of intense, midnight-blue eyes. Eyes that look like they could see through a triple-block or find the exact corner of a court.
“Would it be a genius?” Tadashi wonders aloud, his voice barely audible over the sizzling of the pan. “Or would it just be... clumsy, like me?”
Tsukishima finally turns around, leaning against the counter with the spatula in hand. He looks at Tadashi, then at the baby on the TV, and then back to Tadashi’s tear-streaked face.
“It would probably be an annoying brat regardless of whose eyes it has,” Tsukishima says, though his tone is unusually soft. “But it would be your annoying brat. You’re the one who has to live with it.”
Tadashi looks back at the TV, but the ad is over, replaced by a loud car commercial. The image of the baby lingers in his mind, though—a tiny, freckled version of a king.
“I think I’d want him to have the eyes,” Tadashi says, a fresh tear tracking down his cheek. “Even if he never plays volleyball... those eyes are beautiful, aren’t they?”
Tsukishima scoffs, turning back to the stove. “Don’t ask me to compliment Kageyama. I have a reputation to uphold.”
Yamaguchi decides to keep working, much to Tsukki’s annoyance. He needs the distraction. If he stays home, the silence of the apartment will just swallow him whole—especially since Tsukki has to head back to Sendai for practice with the Frogs soon.
He keeps telling himself he should just fix the situation. Life would go back to normal. No more panic, no more secrets. But every time he closes his eyes, he sees things he shouldn’t.
He imagines the weight of a baby in his arms. He thinks about the exhaustion of a sleepless night, the kind that leaves you drained but strangely content as the morning sun hits the floorboards. He even finds himself wondering about the smell of baby powder and milk. It’s a terrifying, warm pull toward a life he never asked for, yet can't seem to shake.
Why am I like this? I should hate this, he thinks, leaning against his desk.
But his body won’t let him forget. The morning sickness is relentless, and the fatigue makes his limbs feel like lead. Then there are the physical changes. He feels bloated, his chest is tender, and he’s convinced he looks like a fat ass—a claim that made Tsukki actually double over laughing.
“You’re being dramatic, Tadashi,” Tsukki had wheezed. “You just look like a marshmallow. Soft and round~”
“Shut up, Tsukki! It’s not funny!”
Thankfully, his co-workers just think he’s coming down with a persistent flu. But the real shadow hanging over him isn’t work—it’s the upcoming Tokyo Olympics.
Kageyama is the star of the show right now. He’s everywhere. And once the games end, there will be another party. Hinata will call. Yachi will ask if they’re going. It’s a routine. If he doesn’t show up, people will talk. If he does show up and avoids Kageyama, people will definitely talk.
They had been the captain and vice-captain duo in their third year. They had spent hundreds of hours side-by-side, leading the team, balancing each other out. Everyone considered them close.
How am I supposed to look at him?
Walking down the street, Yamaguchi stops dead in front of a massive billboard. It’s Kageyama, looking intense and heroic, promoting the national team. He looks perfect. He looks like he doesn’t have a single problem in the world.
Yamaguchi pouts, a surge of hormonal irritation bubbling up. He raises his hand and firmly jabs his middle finger toward the giant, handsome face.
“Stupid King,” he huffs.
A group of teenagers walking by stop and stare at him. Yamaguchi’s face turns beet red as he realizes he’s publicly feuding with a piece of canvas. He quickly drops his hand, tucks his chin into his scarf, and scurries away, muttering apologies under his breath.
The most frustrating part of it all was the silence from the other side. It was as if the universe had split into two timelines: one where Tadashi’s entire world had been rewritten, and one where Kageyama Tobio simply went back to being the king of the court.
Yamaguchi sits in the cramped breakroom, the blue light of the TV flickering over his face. Beside him, Yachi is leaning forward, her hands clasped tight under her chin as she watches the Tokyo Olympics broadcast.
On the screen, Kageyama is in his element. He’s composed, lethal, and devastatingly focused.
“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” Yachi whispers, her eyes shining with pride. “The way he’s connecting with everyone... it’s like he’s playing a different game than everyone else.”
“Yeah,” Tadashi mumbles, his voice sounding thin. “Incredible.”
Does he even remember? While Tadashi is counting weeks and measuring the diameter of his waistline with a sewing tape he bought in a panic, Kageyama is out there conquering the world.
Tadashi had been a coward. He’d woken up in that hotel room, seen the sunrise hitting Tobio’s sleeping face, and bolted. He hadn’t left a note. He hadn’t sent a text. He’d just disappeared into the morning fog, hoping the shame would stay behind in those rumpled sheets.
On the TV, Kageyama and Hinata pull off a freak-quick that leaves the opposing blockers looking like statues. They share a brief, sharp fist bump. Kageyama looks like he belongs there—under the bright lights, in the center of the world’s stage.
Who was Tadashi to deprive him of that? Who was he to drag that man down into the messy, complicated reality of a pregnancy that shouldn’t even be possible? Only a monster would look at that greatness and decide to tether it to a mistake.
No, I’m not that person, Tadashi thinks, his grip tightening on his lukewarm tea.
Tobio, you wouldn’t hate me for being selfish, right? Because I think... I think I want to keep them. Even if you never know. Even if I have to do this alone.
A sharp, stinging sensation flares in his chest, making it hard to draw a full breath. God, he felt horrible. Like a thief stealing a future that belonged to both of them and keeping it in a small, hidden box.
“Yama-kun?” Yachi asks, finally tearing her eyes away from the match. She looks at his pale face, her brow furrowed. “You’ve barely touched your rice. Are you feeling okay? You look... really green.”
Tadashi tries to smile, but his stomach does a violent, liquid somersault as the smell of the cafeteria’s grilled fish hits him all at once.
“I think...” he gasps, pushing his chair back so fast it screeches against the linoleum. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Wait, I’ll get your bag! Yama-kun!”
He doesn’t wait. He stumbles toward the restroom, his hand over his mouth. As the door swings shut behind him, the last thing he hears is the announcer’s voice screaming Kageyama’s name after an ace.
And Tadashi was losing his lunch in a stall, crying for a man who didn’t even know he was about to be a father.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
At ten weeks, the guilt started to outweigh the morning sickness.
Every time Tsukishima missed a morning practice with the Sendai Frogs to drive him to an appointment, Yamaguchi felt like a burden. He’d sit in the waiting room, surrounded by couples, watching Tsukki aggressively scroll through his phone with a scowl that screamed I’d rather be blocking spikes right now.
“You don’t have to come next time, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi had said that morning, staring at his sneakers. “I chose this. It’s my responsibility, not yours.”
“Shut up, Tadashi. If I let you go alone, you’ll probably forget to ask the doctor half the things you’re worried about and then call me crying at 2:00 AM,” Tsukishima had retorted, though he didn’t look away from his screen.
Still, Yamaguchi was already making plans. He’d file for leave once he couldn’t hide the bump under oversized hoodies. He couldn’t stay in Miyagi. This was a small world, and the volleyball circle was even smaller. If he stayed, someone would ask. Someone would figure it out. And as much as Tsukki had joked—or maybe half-threatened—to claim he was the father to shut people up, Yamaguchi couldn’t let him. It wasn’t fair to tie Tsukki to a lie that big.
Now, he’s wandering the aisles of a local grocery store, nursing his third carton of milk. He wasn’t even there to buy anything specific. For some reason, the sterile, chilled air and the faint scent of floor wax and fresh produce were the only things keeping his nausea at bay.
Why does a grocery store smell so good? Am I losing my mind? he wondered, taking a long sip of strawberry milk.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A notification from the group chat.
[ KARASUNO ALUMNI 🐦⬛ ]
ninja shoyo 🥷: WE STILL HAVE TO CELEBRATE!! Argentina was tough but the team was amazing!! 🏐✨
🔐 kiyoko’s sugarplum 🔐 Meat! We’re doing yakiniku! Who’s in?
rolling in the dessert: How I wish we’re in Japan rn 👺
Yamaguchi’s stomach did a nervous flip that had nothing to do with the baby. He started typing a response—Sorry guys, I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather lately—but he paused. They’d see right through that. They’d just offer to bring the party to his apartment.
Then, another vibration. Not the group chat. A private message.
Yamaguchi took a large, distracted gulp of milk just as he tapped the notification.
Kageyama:
Yamaguchi, I think we need to talk.
Tadashi didn’t just choke as he practically detonated. A spray of strawberry milk hit the floor tiles in a tragic pink puddle. He spent the next thirty seconds doubled over, coughing and gasping for air, his face turning a shade of red that matched the strawberry flavoring.
God, I’m making a mess in the middle of Aisle 4, he thought frantically, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He stared at the screen, the words blurring. Talk? Talk about what? The party? The match? Or...
His thumb hovered over the keyboard, shaking.
Yamaguchi:
Oh, hey Kageyama! Congrats on the Olympics! You guys were great. Talk about what?
He held his breath, staring at the read receipt. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, and Tobio was the one holding the megaphone.
The three dots appeared. They danced for an eternity, disappeared, then came back.
Kageyama:
About that night. I remember, Yamaguchi.
Tadashi enters the apartment in a daze, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that makes his stomach twist. He doesn’t even take off his coat. He just stands in the entryway, staring at the wall.
Tsukishima is already there, still in his Sendai Frogs jersey, sitting on the bench to unlace his shoes. He looks up, taking in Tadashi’s pale, vacant expression. He’s seen that look too often lately—that hollow, dissociative stare that usually follows a doctor’s appointment—but this is different.
“Spit it out,” Tsukishima says, his voice flat but focused.
Tadashi doesn’t respond. He walks straight to the kitchen, his movements mechanical. He opens the fridge, pulls out a fresh carton of milk, and pours a glass with a hand that won't stop shaking.
“Tadashi. Talk to me.”
“He remembered,” Tadashi whispers.
The silence that follows is sharp. Tsukishima finishes unlacing his shoes, his jaw tightening so hard Tadashi can hear his teeth grind. He stands up, disappears into the bedroom for thirty seconds to pull on a hoodie, and marches into the kitchen. He finds Tadashi leaning against the counter, staring into the white depths of his glass.
“Did you even eat dinner?” Tsukishima asks, his voice vibrating with suppressed anger.
Yamaguchi just raises his milk glass a few inches.
“Milk isn’t a meal, you moron. You’re supposed to be eating for two, or have you forgotten that part already?” Tsukishima sighs, moving toward the fridge and pulling out some leftovers. He starts aggressively plating some rice and stir-fry. “What did he say? Exactly.”
Tadashi pulls his phone out of his pocket like it’s a live grenade and slides it across the counter. It spins once before coming to a stop in front of Tsukishima.
Tsukishima reads the screen. I remember, Yamaguchi.
“Vague. Typical,” Tsukishima sneers, though his hand is trembling slightly. He wants to throw the phone across the room. He wants to drive to Tokyo and find a certain setter. “What are you going to do?”
“I haven’t replied,” Tadashi says, his voice small. “I don’t know what to say, Tsukki. I’ve been staring at the screen for two hours.”
He looks up at Tsukishima, his eyes welling with the kind of hot, heavy tears he’s been trying to hold back all day. “I’m a destroyer, Tsukki. That’s what I am.”
Tsukishima slams the microwave door shut with a loud bang that makes Tadashi jump. “You didn’t destroy anything.”
“But I will!” Tadashi’s voice cracks, finally rising. “The second he finds out I’m pregnant, everything changes! He’s the king of the court, Tsukki! He’s supposed to be going to Italy or Brazil, he’s supposed to be winning gold medals! He’s not supposed to be worrying about prenatal vitamins and... and child support! I’m going to ruin his life!”
Tsukishima’s patience finally snaps. He ignores the microwave’s beep and steps into Tadashi’s space, his shadow looming large over the counter.
“Think about yourself for once, Tadashi!” he shouts, the volume making the windows rattle. “You’re the one carrying that brat! You’re the one who can’t keep food down, the one who’s exhausted every damn morning, the one whose body is changing against his will! And yet you’re still sitting here worrying about his reputation? About his future? You’re about to sacrifice your entire life to keep his perfect, and you think you’re the destroyer?”
Tadashi flinches, drawing his shoulders up to his ears. A sob escapes him, jagged and raw.
Tsukishima freezes. The anger drains out of him, replaced by a stinging, bitter guilt. He takes a slow, shaky breath, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet—unbearably soft for someone like him.
“If there’s one thing you’re destroying, Tadashi... it’s yourself.”
He reaches out, his fingers hovering near Tadashi’s arm before he finally pulls him into a stiff, awkward half-hug. Tadashi collapses against his chest, his forehead digging into the fabric of Tsukki’s hoodie.
“You love him, don’t you?” Tsukishima asks, the words sounding like a confession.
Tadashi doesn’t answer with words. He just clutches the back of Tsukishima’s hoodie and cries, the sound muffled and heart-wrenching in the quiet apartment. It’s the answer Tsukishima already knew, and the one he hated the most.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Three days later, the apartment feels like a pressure cooker. Tsukishima had left for a weekend training camp in Sendai rather reluctantly, leaving Tadashi alone with his thoughts and a phone that feels like it’s haunted. His gender reveal appointment is scheduled for Monday, and for a moment, Yamaguchi tries to anchor himself to that—to the child—rather than the father.
But the talk Kageyama wanted hadn’t happened over text. Instead, a series of missed calls followed, each one sending Tadashi into a fresh spiral of panic.
Finally, a text came through that morning: I’m in Miyagi. Meet me at the park near the old high school. 6 PM.
The air is crisp, smelling of damp earth and the coming evening chill. Tadashi stands by the familiar vending machine, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. He stares at the buttons, his finger hovering over the strawberry milk, but he doesn’t press it. He’s wearing his thickest, most oversized parka—partly for the cold, partly to hide the subtle softening of his silhouette that only he and Tsukki seem to notice.
He hears the footsteps before he sees him. Heavy, rhythmic, and purposeful.
“Yamaguchi.”
Tadashi turns. Tobio is standing a few feet away, partially obscured by a baseball cap and a black face mask. Despite the disguise, the exhaustion radiating off him is palpable. There are heavy, dark circles under those piercing blue eyes.
“Hey,” Tadashi greets him, offering a small, fragile smile.
That smile makes Kageyama’s knees buckle. It’s as if the sheer weight of the Olympics, the adrenaline of the games, and the crushing fatigue of the last few weeks finally hit him all at once. He stumbles, and Yamaguchi is immediately at his side, hands reaching out to steady him.
“Whoa, Tobio!” Tadashi’s voice is laced with a familiar, frantic concern.
He doesn’t realize how beautiful he looks under the pale moonlight. His freckles look like fallen stars against his pale skin, and his hazel eyes are wide with worry. Kageyama doesn’t pull away. He leans into the touch, a wave of self-hatred washing over him.
He had been so careless that night. He had taken someone who deserved to be cherished—someone who had been a pillar for him since high school—and turned their bond into a blur of alcohol and impulsive desire.
“Tobio, you’re exhausted," Tadashi whispers, guiding the taller man to a nearby bench. “What you need right now is a good nap, not a trip to Miyagi.”
“But I have what I need right here,” Kageyama rasps. His hand trembles as it hovers near Yamaguchi’s cheek, his fingers ghosting over the skin but not quite touching.
Yamaguchi focuses on helping him sit properly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He keeps his parka pulled tight around his middle.
“You don’t mean that,” Tadashi says softly, looking down at his shoes. “You’re just tired and overwhelmed.”
“I do mean it,” Tobio says, his voice cracking with a rare, raw sincerity. He reaches out, finally catching Tadashi’s hand. His grip is firm, the hand of a setter who never lets a ball drop.
They stare at each other—blue eyes searching hazel ones. The silence of the park feels heavy, broken only by the distant hum of traffic.
“Was it just a night for you, Yamaguchi?” Tobio asks, his gaze intense. “Because I haven’t been able to think about anything else since I woke up and found you gone.”
“Tobio,” Tadashi starts, his voice trembling as he struggles to keep his breathing steady. Whoa. He needs to stay calm—for the baby’s sake, if not his own. “It wasn’t... it wasn’t just a night. But it was a mistake. We were both drunk, and you have so much going on. Your career is literally exploding right now—”
“I don’t like that word,” Kageyama interrupts.
His brow furrows, his eyes darting to the side as he processes the sentence. It’s that look he gets when he’s dissecting a failed play, only this time, the stakes aren’t on a scoreboard.
“Mistake,” Tobio repeats, testing the weight of it. “It implies an error in calculation. Like I hit the ball out of bounds because I misjudged the wind. I knew it was you the whole time, Yamaguchi. I wasn’t... I wasn’t confused about who I was with.”
He shifts on the bench, his movements slightly stiff, his knees bumping against Tadashi’s in the narrow space. The contact sends a jolt through Tadashi, making him pull his parka even tighter around his waist, the fabric bunching over the small, hidden curve of his stomach.
“I didn’t know how to text you,” Tobio continues. His voice is flat, stripped of his usual competitive bite, leaving only a raw, awkward honesty. “I tried. Every day. I wrote hello fourteen times and deleted it. I wrote did you get home okay? but it had been three days, then a week, then a month. It didn’t feel like the right sequence of words.”
Tadashi lets out a breathy, hysterical huff. “You were worried about the sequence? Tobio, I vanished. I ghosted a national team player. I thought you’d be relieved I didn’t make it weird.”
“It was already weird,” Kageyama counters, finally looking Tadashi dead in the eye. “It was weird because I didn’t want you to leave. I woke up and the room was cold. I thought... I thought I did something wrong. That I hurt you or made you uncomfortable.”
“No,” Tadashi whispers, his heart breaking at the thought of Kageyama—the arrogant, kingly Kageyama—worrying about that. “You didn’t. You were... you were actually really gentle. Which made it worse.”
“Worse?”
“Worse because it made me want things I can’t have,” Tadashi says, his voice cracking. He looks away, watching a stray leaf skitter across the pavement. “Things that would ruin everything you’ve worked for.
Kageyama’s grip on Tadashi’s hand tightens, his calloused thumb rubbing over Tadashi’s knuckles. It’s the hand of a setter—strong, precise, and currently anchored to Tadashi like he’s the only thing keeping Kageyama grounded.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Tobio mutters, his voice dropping. “Deciding what I want before you even ask me.”
Tadashi blinks, his vision blurring with tears he refuses to let fall. He can feel the cold metal of the bench through his trousers and the heat of Tobio’s hand. He feels like he’s standing on a fault line.
“Then... what do you want, Tobio?” he asks, the question barely a breath.
“I want you.”
It’s so blunt. So Kageyama. No flowery metaphors, no poetic buildup. Just a straight-line serve, aimed directly at Tadashi’s chest.
“You’re not a mistake in my life, Yamaguchi. You’re... you’re the person I wanted to see in the stands, by my side when I won.” Tobio’s face is a mask of intense concentration, like he’s trying to find the words for a feeling he’s never had to coach before. “I came here because I don’t want to go to Italy without knowing where we stand.”
Yamaguchi feels a sob build in his throat. He wants to lean into that intensity, to believe it’s that simple. But he thinks of the monday appointment. He thinks of the tiny heartbeat he saw on a screen.
“Even if... even if I’m not the same person you remember from that night?” Tadashi asks, his voice trembling. “Even if I’m... complicated?”
“You’ve always been complicated,” Kageyama says, and for a second, a tiny ghost of a smile touches his lips. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”
Tadashi’s heart is pounding so hard he’s worried Tobio can feel it through their joined hands. This is the moment. He could keep lying, keep hiding behind the oversized parka and the excuses about careers and reputations, or he could let the truth ruin everything.
“I have an appointment on monday,” Tadashi says. The words are quiet, almost swallowed by the evening wind.
Kageyama blinks, his head tilting slightly in confusion. “For your allergies? Hitoka said you were feeling sick.”
“No. Not for allergies.” Tadashi takes a shuddering breath, his free hand moving instinctively to the front of his coat, clutching the heavy fabric. “Tobio, do you remember... what I told you in high school? About my body? About why I was so insecure during physicals?”
Kageyama’s expression shifts. The confusion clears, replaced by a deep, focused stillness. He’s a man of instinct, and right now, his instincts are screaming that the air has changed. “I remember. You said you were different. Intersex.”
“The doctors always told me the chances were low. Almost zero,” Tadashi whispers, fresh tears finally spilling over. “But apparently, almost zero isn’t the same as impossible.”
He takes Kageyama’s hand—the one that was just holding his knuckles—and slowly moves it. Tobio doesn’t resist. He lets Tadashi guide his large, calloused hand toward the center of the parka. Through the thick layers of down and polyester, Tadashi presses Kageyama’s palm against the slight, firm curve of his lower stomach.
Tobio freezes. He looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe. His eyes drop to where his hand is resting, his fingers splaying out instinctively.
“I’m ten weeks along,” Tadashi chokes out, a sob finally breaking through. “It’s yours, Tobio. I’m—I’m pregnant.”
The silence that follows is deafening. A car passes by on the street, its headlights momentarily illuminating the shock etched onto Kageyama’s face. He doesn’t pull his hand away. If anything, his fingers twitch, pressing a little firmer against the warmth of Tadashi’s body.
“A baby,” Tobio breathes. It’s not a question. It’s a realization that seems to be re-writing his entire brain in real-time.
“I was going to go away,” Tadashi confesses, the words tumbling out in a rush of guilt. “I was going to move, change my number... I didn’t want to be the thing that stopped you. You’re supposed to be the best in the world. You can’t be a father right now.”
Kageyama finally looks up. His blue eyes aren’t hazy or tired anymore. They’re blazing with that terrifying, singular intensity that used to make opponents tremble at the net.
“Stop it,” Kageyama commands.
“Tobio—”
“I said stop.” He stands up, pulling Tadashi up with him by the waist. His hands are large and steady, anchoring Tadashi so he can’t look away. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle. You don’t get to decide that I cannot be a father right now just because I’m good at volleyball.”
He leans in, his forehead dropping to rest against Tadashi’s.
“Is the baby okay?” he asks, his voice dropping to a low, fierce rumble. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been... throwing up a lot,” Tadashi laughs weakly through his tears. “And I really like strawberry milk.”
Kageyama lets out a long, shaky exhale, his eyes closing as he leans into Tadashi’s space. “Monday. The appointment. What time?”
“Ten in the morning. But Tobio, your training—”
“I’ll be there,” Kageyama interrupts, leaving no room for argument. He pulls back just enough to look at Tadashi, his thumb catching a stray tear. “We’re doing this together. That’s the sequence, Yamaguchi. Me and you. Always.”
Tadashi squints against the harsh morning light, the sleep still heavy in his eyes. He tries to shift, but he’s pinned. Kageyama is a notoriously heavy sleeper when he isn’t on a strict training schedule, and right now, he’s acting like a human weighted blanket, his limbs draped over Tadashi with crushing affection.
“Now I know why I kept choking on my dinner last night. Traitor.”
Tsukishima’s voice is like a splash of ice water. He’s standing by the window in his full Sendai Frogs gear, looking exhausted and thoroughly unimpressed. He had been the one to rip the curtains open, letting the sun punish Tadashi’s retinas. His gaze is laser-focused on the way Tobio’s nose is smushed into Tadashi’s shoulder, his breathing deep and even.
“Good morning to you too, Tsukki,” Tadashi croaks, his voice thick with sleep. He tries to pat Tobio’s arm to get him to loosen his grip, but the setter only grunts and pulls him closer, a territorial mumble vibrating against Tadashi’s skin.
Tsukishima rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful. He drops onto the edge of the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight. He stares at Tobio’s peaceful, stupid face with pure, unadulterated vitriol.
“Can I punch him while he’s asleep?” Tsukishima asks, his fingers twitching toward a fist. “Just once. For my own mental health.”
“Tsukki, no,” Tadashi giggles, though it turns into a small wince as his stomach settles for the morning. “He’s tired. He drove three hours in the middle of the night just so we could talk. He barely slept.”
“He’s a moron,” Tsukishima sighs. He reaches down, picks up a stray sock from the floor, and roughly tosses it at Kageyama’s head. It bounces off his ear.
Kageyama stirs. His eyes flutter open, blinking against the light. It takes him exactly three seconds to register Tsukishima’s presence. Most people would jump out of their skin but Kageyama just narrows his eyes, his grip on Tadashi’s waist tightening instinctively.
“You’re back early,” Kageyama grumbles, his voice raspy and low with sleep.
“You’re in the wrong house,” Tsukishima snaps back, leaning in close. “And you’re crushing my godchild, you giant oaf. Move.”
Kageyama blinks, the word godchild acting like a physical jolt to his system. His brain finally catches up to reality. He immediately recoils, scrambling backward so fast he nearly falls off the other side of the bed. His hands hover over Tadashi’s stomach with wide, panicked eyes.
“Did I—? Are you okay? Is the baby okay?” Kageyama’s voice is frantic, his hands shaking as they hover an inch above the duvet. “I didn’t mean to press that hard, I just—”
Tadashi can’t help it as he bursts out laughing, the sound bright and genuine as he leans back against the headboard. “We’re fine, Tobio. The baby is fine. You were just hugging me, not trying to shut down a spike.”
Kageyama lets out a breath so long it sounds like a deflating balloon, his shoulders dropping. He shoots a glare at Tsukishima. “Don’t scare me like that, four-eyes.”
“Ugh, so cringe,” Tsukishima mutters, standing up and heading for the door. He stops at the threshold, his shoulders finally losing some of that rigid tension he’d been carrying for weeks. He looks back at the two of them—Tadashi glowing despite the morning sickness, and Kageyama looking like he’d fight a god for a diaper bag.
“I can’t watch the two of you being lovebirds,” Tsukishima says, making a dramatic vomiting sound. “I’m going to go take a shower and try to scrub the memory of this room from my brain. If there isn’t breakfast ready when I’m out, I’m kicking the King out of the apartment.”
“I’ll make eggs!” Kageyama offers, already halfway out of bed.
“Don’t let him touch the stove, Tadashi!” Tsukishima yells from the hallway. “He’ll burn the building down!”
Tadashi just smiles, watching Tobio fumble for his shirt. For the first time in weeks, the air in the room feels like he can actually breathe it.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Rome, 2022
FIVB VOLLEYBALL MEN’S WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP FINALS
Ali Roma (Italy Serie A)
VS.
Asas Sâo Paulo (Brazil Super League)
The air in the Palalottomatica was thick—heavy with the electric hum of twenty thousand screaming fans. It was the kind of noise that usually felt like a physical weight, but today, it was just background static.
On the other side of the net, Hinata was practically vibrating. His orange hair was damp with sweat, and that familiar, manic grin was plastered across his face. Rivals. Best friends. The two ends of a string that had been pulling tight for years, finally snapping taut in Rome.
Kageyama didn’t look at him. Not yet.
His eyes drifted to the stands, scanning the sea of jerseys and flags until they snagged on a specific patch of green.
There.
Yamaguchi was standing near the railing, looking a bit frazzled but glowing. In his arms, a chubby toddler was squirming, tiny hands reaching for nothing in particular. The baby had Tobio’s scowl—that permanent, focused furrow of the brow—and eyes that were carbon copies of his own.
Yamaguchi caught his gaze. His smile went wide, soft and proud, as he pressed a freckled hand to his heart.
Mine, Tobio thought. The word felt heavy in his chest. That kind, beautiful man is mine.
He still didn’t quite understand how he’d managed it. He wasn’t good at the soft stuff. He forgot anniversaries unless they were programmed into three different calendars, and he sometimes went hours without speaking because the words got stuck in his throat. But Tadashi never minded. Tadashi always knew what the silence meant.
“Tobio! Focus!”
Hinata’s voice pierced the bubble. He was leaning over the net, pointing a finger.
“Shut up, Shoyo,” Kageyama muttered, though there was no bite in it.
Hinata smirked, eyes darting to the stands where Yamaguchi was waving. “You’re distracted! I’m gonna win this, and then I’m going to spoil my godson with so much sugar he won't let you sleep for a week!”
Tobio didn’t answer. He couldn’t. If he started talking, he’d lose the rhythm.
He turned away, the world shrinking down until it was just him and the mikasa ball in his hands. He felt the grain of the leather. He traced the seams with his thumb, his brain ticking over the data points like a computer booting up.
Five grams heavier than the practice ball.
The humidity is at 45%.
The air conditioning is blowing slightly from the North-East corner.
The floor has a 0.2-second delay in traction compared to the gym he was used to.
He bounced the ball. Once. Twice.
The sound of the rubber hitting the floor was the only thing that was real. The lights were too bright, the crowd was too loud, and his skin felt a little too tight for his body—but the ball was perfect.
He glanced back at the stands one last time. Yamaguchi mouthed something. I love you. Or maybe, Kill them. With Tadashi, it was usually both.
Kageyama took a deep breath, the scent of floor wax and adrenaline filling his lungs.
The whistle blew.
Everything else disappeared. The father, the husband, the man who struggled to make small talk—they all stepped back. There was only the server.
He tossed the ball high.
It was time to play.